


Into Directionless Dust

by gointorosedale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gointorosedale/pseuds/gointorosedale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most humans, or whatever passes for them these days, say that the fall into oblivion is a gradual, unnoticed and unwanted one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Directionless Dust

Most humans, or whatever passes for them these days, say that the fall into oblivion is a gradual, unnoticed and unwanted one.

Castiel will be the first to disagree.

Perhaps his case is special, but the slip-slide down was not unwanted. Castiel thinks this might be the case for others, but he never really got humanity right. (He never tried to, because it wasn’t about humanity, it was about Dean, but that definitely doesn’t matter anymore.)

The point is, he’s fairly sure that most of the fallen (not Fallen, not Fallen, though Castiel _is _one of them these days) are seeking it, the nothingness and numbness that alcohol offers. Castiel is fairly sure that no one drinks so much for the taste, or takes drugs for anything other than the effect they have. In that way, he supposes he is well-adjusted, because he got humanity in its most basic way: the need for nothing.

When Castiel rebelled, he knew the risks, the threat of Falling looming overhead like a guillotine. He knew what would happen, but he looked at Dean and saw the confidence and righteousness of his soul and decided that the consequences didn’t matter. His Father was gone, his brothers wanted to destroy His creation, and Castiel really only ever was a foot-soldier in this war, his only purpose was following orders. So Castiel followed Dean’s, because he trusted Dean to be right and not let him down like his Father had, like his brothers had.

Castiel isn’t sure if his faith was misplaced or not, because Castiel thinks Dean isn’t himself anymore these days but he can’t be sure, he can’t see souls anymore. But really, whether that faith was misplaced or not doesn’t matter to the outcome of Castiel’s story.

Because Castiel might have known what Falling meant, but nothing prepared him for the actual Fall.

The problem is, there are no words in Heaven, Hell, Earth or anything in between that really describe what Falling is. Or, well, what it is is easily described. You are thrown out of Heaven and stripped of your powers. It’s what it’s not that cannot be comprehended until it’s felt.

Because being an angel, it’s a lot of things. It’s a feeling that, Castiel has learned, is somewhat similar to human patriotism. The feeling of love for his home, his brothers and everything in Heaven, and that got him that same love in return. It’s different from earthly love, from the fierce urgent need-want-have kind because it’s peaceful, quiet and simple. It is a bargain of sorts, really. I love you if you all love me in return. And it works.

Of course, Falling means giving that up. Means getting nothing, not even hatred or scorn, means not even being a blip on the heavenly radar. Heaven does not care about you. It’s shattering, that loss, because Castiel’s whole life, like that of any angel, was built on the love his brothers and now that is gone. Dean’s momentary affection is pathetic in comparison.

But being an angel is more than that all-encompassing feeling of peace and love, however much of a contradiction that is. Being an angel is sometimes a very solitary thing.

Flying is probably what Castiel misses most, and this may be blasphemy of some sort but he’s done worse things, it’s alright. Flying is the ultimate freedom, that one small peace of yourself, of individuality you get in Heaven. In the skies with only yourself for company.

Castiel always supposed that when he fell, he wouldn’t miss flying because he would _have _individuality more than he ever did in Heaven. But that’s not the case.

Because being human also means being bound to earth and some days Castiel still wakes up, feeling like stretching his wings only to find out that they have been cut from his body and burnt to ashes.

Castiel has heard people compare drugs to flying. They are so wrong he feels like crying or laughing or both. The drugs, the alcohol, it’s nice enough. It buzzes everything and blurs his world until he isn’t sure what he was feeling before and some mornings (or afternoons, or evenings or anything in between because Castiel isn’t picky about time) he still can’t remember what to feel. So he has more drugs.

Castiel knows many methods for numbness, and all are useful in their own way. There is alcohol, drugs, and even the simple pleasure of losing himself in the past, a time when there was no time, when the wind blew through his hair as he spread his wings and flew.

Then, of course, there’s Dean.

Some days, Castiel hates Dean. _You’re a hypocrite,_ he tells Dean wryly and he twists his face into an almost-snarl. Those days, Dean shouts his voice raw and Castiel doesn’t bother to try and get over it, and Chuck shows up, telling them they’re waking the others.

They patrol the camp together on Tuesdays, or maybe it’s Thursdays? The days are dark and grey, and there’s fog all around them. The trees are dead, branches broken and leaves spread on the ground in a twisted eternal autumn.

 Though Dean rarely talks, Castiel sometimes does. He asks things, to torment and annoy and because he can, because he wants to hurt. _Would you prefer if I hadn’t taken you from Hell?_ asked innocently enough but there’s no answer, never an answer, Dean just shoulders his shotgun and turns his head to the side and keeps on walking. Castiel shrugs and lights a cigarette. The leaves crunch beneath their feet.

Despite everything, Dean usually ends up in Castiel’s hut, if only because no one else will have Dean when he’s too tired to fuck and there’s nothing to kill. Castiel isn’t sure why he lets Dean in, but he does. The sky is grey and the clouds are greyer, but it never rains.  
They sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the bed or the floor, Castiel with a cigarette and Dean with a bottle. Like a couple of broken war heroes, discarded after the story ended and maybe they are, but they can’t be cast aside just yet, the war isn’t over.

Chuck once joked that they were obviously still in love, but that’s not it. Castiel isn’t sure when it stopped being love, because he knows it once was. Castiel remembers, vaguely, behind the hazy veil that seems to have fallen over his memories, the indescribable feeling of “I-will-do-everything-for-you”, a kind of trust that was unlike anything. But it faded, maybe after the angels left, maybe after Sam, maybe it was Dean, maybe it was Cas. More likely it was both.

Anyways, nowadays, they aren’t lovers anymore. They aren’t friends, but they also aren’t mortal enemies, or even remotely hostile. They aren’t anything. They just are, that’s all, no meaning or purpose or intent. It’s not much, but the world hasn't ended and Castiel supposes it'll do.


End file.
